


I Can Make Blasphemy Feel Good On Your Tongue

by jetblacklilac



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon is a wildling and they're considered heathens, Sansa is Christian, religious banter that implies a LOT of things ehe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-27
Updated: 2018-09-27
Packaged: 2019-07-18 05:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16111700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetblacklilac/pseuds/jetblacklilac
Summary: The devil can be seen in his smile and nothing can be more enthralling than this sight.





	I Can Make Blasphemy Feel Good On Your Tongue

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is originally a luke skywalker/reader fic but i've reread it and it definitely (deliciously) applies to my favorite otp and why not?? just to clear things out, jon didn't infiltrate Wintefell, he's a guest there or something kudos and comments are appreciated !!!

It was quiet, deathly so as though a funeral has just happened. The reason for the echoing silence is only one person occupies the small chapel. His one and true reason to even wander in this part of the castle sits at the second pew, head craned down, and her attention to the squared leather bound holy book. The darn thing has gotten more adoration and care than he ever did in this visit. Not the matter, Jon assuages his feeble annoyance. One way or another, he’ll persuade the princess to look even a moment off the Bible.

“Thought I’d find you here.” He murmurs and reels back how excited he is at the prospect of them being alone; no chaperones, no prying eyes of her court, none but her God, looking at them in polished statue on a wooden cross. To her, it seems he materialized next to her and it caused a tiny twitch on the corner of his mouth.

She jumps at the sudden intrusion of the tranquillity she bubbled herself in. Her eyes remind him of the unforgiving winters he has endured all his life but his insides are warmed nonetheless, are finally focused on him.  She marked the chapter she was on with a thin red cloth and her spine straightened even more he feared it might break. “You thought correct. Is there a matter of concern?” She questioned, a little crease formed in the middle of the brows.

“None that I am aware of.” He assures her. Then, he takes a moment to drink in the bleakness of this sacred place; wooden benches are lined in rows that face a cream linen altar, still pristine and nearly glows in the gloom they are in. Everything in the room is positioned before the tabernacle, as she once taught him, the golden case of where the body of Christ is placed in. It is a curious thing for the Son of Man to reside in this simple and barren setting.

“So this is where you hide from me, Princess Sansa. A rather degrade from tea in your gardens. A lovely spectacle of exotic plants and trees, I must say.” Jon nonchalantly comments in a hum, a tease of a song. His plan worked as the ire surfaces on her smooth face, always so civil and aloof. But not when he gently pricks her skin with needles.

She scoots an inch away from him and his reaction is to swallow the distant and their knees, though engulfed in fabrics of different kinds, brushed. “You flatter yourself. I merely wanted to be in my own company and read.” She almost huffs, offended and her hands reach for her precious book, fingers clenching on the surface of it.

Excitement hums in his blood. “Ah, reading the good Bible, my princess? Though people have labelled me a heathen, I do know what you Christians read.” He says with a smile that dented his cheeks.

“But-but I know you’re not a heathen. Word has reached me that you are of a different faith Beyond the Wall. Father is rather drastic in casting outsiders of our belief.” She says with a light laugh. The sound felt odd in the serene place they’re in. He imagined this place’s sole purpose is divine contemplation or revelation, those terms are often tossed around for them it often puzzles him.

_And you listen to gossips about me? What else do you know or want to know?_

“I believe that whichever god or goddess created us or this world, has mercy in introducing beauty even as suffering is a dark gloom above our heads.” Jon explains, fully aware how his voice dipped down a hill he doesn’t want to ascend anymore. Not when he noted the quick bob on her porcelain column throat, how her eyes shifted about as though she searches for some escape of the inevitable. He’d gladly surrender himself to this ruin, especially if the downfall would be as sweet as this princess..

“Yes, nature is exceedingly captivating. The gardens are much lovelier in spring, just as winter melts away.” She agrees with a little spring in her voice. “If your faith is vague in its principles, how do you practice it? Do you have rituals or traditions to uphold?” She asked, the genuine in her question is found in the slight twist of her ankle so her body is more angled towards him.

 _Increase in interest,_  the Wildling thought in triumph. A won battle in the on-going war. “How else does one enjoy the innate beauty Mother Nature offers? By making them flourish in a manner they deserve, flushed in pink, and say the Maker’s name as we appreciate them more in an altar of a flat surface. And if we’re more devoted, a bed for comfort.” He whispers low and darkened in wicked intent. It was a sickening thrill to say such a thing in front of a statue of their God.

More so, red unfurls on her cheeks, dripping down her neck and she simpers quite temptingly. The flame on her face matches the twin braids of her thick fiery locks. She throws a cautious glance at the altar, he could tell she expected some priest to whack his head with a candlestick. But none came and a small frown sours her lush pink mouth. “That sort of talk isn’t welcomed in a chapel.” She lightly scolds, her honey voice lulling and ever so sweet to hear.

What he would do to have that same voice sigh his name to the Heavens, just about anything in this moment.

“A heathen’s mistake, I supposed.” He jested with a wolfish grin, aimed at his prey. “Surely you agree with me. Appreciation for whatever god one believes in can be in loving their creation.” He points out; logic is a mere blanket to obscure his true intention, of something far from being a good Christian and more of a sinner.

Jon’s hand snuck underneath he bench, his nails biting as he witnessed her pink tongue licked her lips for a second; a motion he reverently followed. An unconscious movement she did that has sparked fiery thoughts in his mind.

“That is the general idea of faith.” She stated. She tilted her neck more towards him so her bright copper braided hair moved like a river’s current and rested on one of her shoulders. Her silvery voice is wrapping its gleaming ties in his veins and he feels himself tightening.

 _We haven’t even done anything_. The Wildling protested in mild humiliation but one look at the princess, he knows she’s trying not to think of what could happen. Her cheeks are slightly dusted with a blush, her body is facing him with attention, and her hands loosened on the Bible. Finally.

“How about I watch you pray?” Jon suggests, vaguely gesturing to their surroundings. An air of contemplation has given him time to think of what he really wants. It’s not a question of whom anymore but what to do when she’ll be putty in his hands.

He could detect the tension stiffening her joints, her composure is a rock, and still, still she licks her lips. Attempting to reign in his smirk is a challenge for he could see how tempted she is. How curios she must be of this request?

“Why?”

Ah, clarification and not rejection.

“See how a good little Christian dotes on God. Maybe, you’ll tempt me to convert, princess.” He taunts in the same tone as he usually does. Leaning back on the bench, he observes how the gears in her head run, weighing her options and deciding on whether to play to his tunes or cover her ears. 

She kneels on the cushioned seat. Jon flickers his gaze at the altar, one end of his mouth curled in satisfaction, and he mimics her actions. Their shoulders brush of cotton and his tunic of leather. He interlaces his fingers together like how she does.

“I shall recite the Our Father; most fundamental out of all the formula prayers. You listen to me and we’ll pray it together for a second time.” She murmurs. Her hair obscures his view of the princess so he tucks strands the wayward locks escaping her braid behind her ear.

She closes her eyes, turning her face to the altar. The string of words pushed out of her lips in a pious hum. Their prayer resembled other oral worship he has seen and heard about. Whatever she was reciting, Jon wasn’t listening in the slightest manner. He devoted his time to study her. Since this could be the only time his intense gaze won’t set ablaze the court into a scandal, he takes his time like a priest reading the Holy Scriptures.

The slope of her nose is grateful as a ballet recital. Her ashen gown matches how the small chapel exudes the state of being doleful. Sadly, the floor length of it and how the sleeves rested on her wrists, the dress gave only an impress of a lithe body she possesses. Given, a daughter to a lord, so close to their God, she should be a paragon of modesty. Naturally, Jon’s objective is to make her understand earthly (bodily more like a wormy voice chortled at the back of his mind) desires are not as bad as her assumptions are. After all, it everyone is loyal to God so much, why are there bastards, brothels, and bloodshed in every land?

Her voice is a soft song he’d be willing to listen for the rest of his days. But at night, oh he’ll make sure her God will hear her frantic prayers from her well-bitten lips.

He doesn’t worship what she does. He really must be a pagan because the only reason he’d go on his knees is the woman beside him, blissfully unaware of what they would categorize as an act of sin. He won’t try to please the angels and saints. No, he will only want to give her pleasure. Think of it as an everlasting sacrifice he shall gladly continue giving until she doesn’t want him anymore. But first, Jon thinks, she must know this gnawing want in their guts.

“Let’s pray together.” She announces, derailing him from thoughts that would make nuns lose their balance on standing.

Jon murmurs the words carefully, letting her lead because intuition is what he relies on as he goes along the lines. When she said the final word, she slides back on the bench.

She looks down in him with puzzlement. This is such a tempting sight, a sinful one even. Jon thought shamelessly. He reaches for her hand, smooth as silk and enticing as sin. Placing a chaste kiss on the knuckles, he allows the front of his teeth to scrape her alluring skin. Thunder cracks in his veins at hearing her sharp gasp; surprised and not at all afraid or offended.

“Your pulse is wild right now. Does praying make you agog, princess? Adrenaline must be coursing through you whenever you pray the rosary.” Jon taunts her as he takes the spot next to her. The devil can be seen in his smile and nothing can be more enthralling than this sight.

The thick spruce shawl is wrapped tighter around on her shoulders, a pool of blue on her lap. “Have I converted you?” A slight change of her pitch is the silver lining he took out of this… session.

 _Yes, I want to worship you. Truly I am a pagan for you are my goddess._ He doesn’t say these things though but merely lifted one of his shoulders. “Not yet, princess.”  _Not until I’ll make you sing praises on where you sleep._  “Perhaps a private Bible study will do the trick.”

She studies him for a few moments. Her invaluable holy book is long forgotten and her gaze is akin to a holy man wandering what prayers a sinner should recite for a chance of salvation. But Jon doesn’t want her version of paradise with her God, not when she’s his only chance of perpetual bliss.

“A private Bible study in the library tomorrow afternoon it is then. I shall have a servant fetch for you.” She concedes with non-existent reluctance.

He raised one of his brows at her command. “So soon? My, you’re in a hurry to save me.” He laughs.

Her pretty mouth twitched at that. “My chaperon takes a nap near the fires while I read in my solitary study for hours on end.” She elaborated with an implied tone. The instructions are clear enough.

 “My princess, tea is ready.”’ A guard declares at the doorway of the chapel. Her eyes widened a fraction at seeing them in a position unbefitting an unwed couple. Her hand swipes on the pommel of his sword, her strong jaw tightens, but she makes no move in the temple.

Elegance engrave into her bones, she rises from her seat. “Will you do me the honour of joining?” She asks, bashful and hesitant. Interesting on how the topic of tea, she’s shy as a maid yet a moment ago, they were at a dangerous path of things that shouldn’t even be thought of in a chapel. Her free hand retrieved the bounded book and showed him another amiable smile.

He stands next to her and offers the crook of his elbow. “It will be my pleasure, sweet princess.” He acquiesces with a beam.

The downright smugness couldn’t be kept out of his face. Even in the House of God, temptation thrives and taints the minds of the supposed most faithful servants.

 


End file.
